You Remember
by Aurilia
Summary: Remembering is bittersweet for Sam.


**Disclaimer:** I don't own the Supernatural world. Please don't sue me.

**A/N:** This ficlet is dedicated to the fantastic Kroki-Refur as a thank you for her entertaining picspams of the series. Honestly, girl, you ROCK!

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**You Remember**

When you think of that night, the first thing you remember is that it was raining. Not hard rain, but the soft, misting drizzle that seems to be as much fog as it is rain. The kind that clings to the skin like sweat on a lover, and maybe that was how you liked to think of it – sweat on a pair of lovers fumbling in the back seat of an old car parked out on a hilltop overlooking a lake on a moonlit night. Warm and gentle and maybe a little messy, but all-in-all something inherently _good_.

You aren't sure what she was wearing; you never were able to drink much, and you'd had four or five beers by that point. You don't even remember for sure what bar you had stumbled into, depressed and stressed and lonely and bored as you were. You remember her long blonde hair though, and how her eyes seemed to glimmer and sparkle in the reds, blues, and greens of the neon signs advertising cheap, imported beer. You remember the bar was packed, and she wasn't all that tall, but no matter how many people crowded themselves into that tiny campus bar, you remember how your eyes seemed to be able to pick her out immediately.

She wasn't in your classes – you think you would have remembered her – but you wished she had been. If she had been in your classes, you would have made up a lame question about a point from one of the lectures the previous afternoon and then you could talk to her. If she'd been in your philosophy class, you could ask her opinion on the Plato reading that had been assigned for next Monday; if she'd been in your British lit course, it could have been a joking observation on how Chaucer really was a filthy-minded SOB; if she'd been in your intro to law course, you could have maybe impressed her with your Latin. But she wasn't in your classes, you think you would have remembered her.

It's during times like this that you missed your brother most keenly. You were always a little envious of his easy way with girls, a little jealous of his charm and quick laugh and how he could always, always, _always_ get the girl he was interested in to be interested right back. You missed how, despite the fact you're the taller, _he's_ the one who is larger-than-life. You missed how he would point out possible girls over the first beer of the night, but wouldn't really go talk to them until he'd had two or three, and only if they were obviously there without a boyfriend and only if they had a friend to bring back to you. You always were jealous of him. Especially when he was being nice.

You remember how you nursed your sixth – or was it your seventh? – beer until last call, the lights flickering to catch everyone's attention. You remember how she laughed, how it sounded like a gypsy bracelet of little bells. You remember that it wasn't something you said that made her laugh, rather that it was in reply to the powerfully-built kid in the football jersey who had been doing shots of something clear all night, something that smelled strongly of juniper and came from a square, sky-blue bottle. Funny, you can remember what he was drinking, but not her. You remember hers had a straw and a piece of pineapple, and you _know_ that you knew what it was when you saw it that night, but you can't pull that detail up now. It doesn't matter – you remember her laugh, like bells.

You drained your beer and wondered if she noticed you watching her all night as you fumbled with the zipper on your jacket. You remember thinking that zippers had to have been demonic in nature, else why would they be so hard to operate while buzzed? You distinctly remember thinking 'buzzed', not 'drunk', though you probably were drunk, having passed a mere buzz after that third beer had been drained. Following happy couples out the door, you left the bar the same way to entered it – alone, depressed, stressed, and bored.

You remember walking in the misting drizzle, enjoying how it clung to your skin the way sweat clings to a pair of lovers. You remember walking back to your dorm from the bar, your hands shoved deep in your jacket pockets, one hand wrapped loosely around your cell, the other still lost without the normal presence of a knife or a gun and how fucked up was that, that you were actually _missing_ something like that already! It had only been three weeks. You remember seeing some of the other freshmen – girls, mostly – looking lost and sad. They called it 'homesickness'. You thought that maybe missing that antler-handled dagger Dad gave you for your thirteenth birthday or the Glock 9-mil you preferred over the Beretta was your twisted version of homesickness. Your palm itched, and you tried to ignore it even as you focused more of your attention on the soft caress of the rain.

When you got back to your dorm, you gathered your things to go take a shower and get ready for bed, thankful that your roommate was once again passed out cold on his bunk, a mostly-empty fifth of vodka so cheap not even your brother would have drank it lying on his chest. You wondered, not for the first time, just how you managed to get paired with this particular person. Did the people in the registrar's office not read the answers to those annoyingly cute 'Roommate Compatibility Surveys' they sent out with their welcome kits? Or had he simply grit his teeth, as you had done, and lied his ass off? As you walked into the bathroom, your inebriated mind couldn't help but go back to that survey.

_What will be your major?_

_What sort of music do you prefer?_

_What hobbies do you have?_

_Are you a smoker?_

_Do you have any odd sleeping habits such as snoring or somnambulism?_

How were you _supposed_ to answer those questions? You had never really given much thought to what major you wanted to go into; planning for the future had never been something you were raised to do. You knew you wanted a normal life though, and so put down the first thing that sprung to mind –_ Pre-Law_. You remember repeating that answer on other forms, other questionnaires until you almost had yourself believing that was what you'd planned on all along. You had never driven – except that one time, in South Carolina, when Dad had broken his leg so badly and your brother was out cold and the fear that one or both of them wouldn't make it to the emergency room had your heart pumping so hard you could hardly _think_ – and so had never chosen the music; 'Driver picks the tunes, shotgun shuts his cakehole.' Your dad and brother both seemed to enjoy classic rock, and so that was what went down on the survey. And hobbies… you didn't imagine that the registrar's office would be all that appreciative if you had put down _archery practice, rifle range, hand-to-hand training, locksmithing, tracking, research and investigation, and strategic exercises_; so you had stuck with the simplest thing,_ reading_. The smoking question was the only straightforward one on the list. Smoker? You? Not a chance in Hell. Strange sleeping habits, however, was answered with a _no_, though you knew you slept lightly, always ready to go at a moment's notice, usually with one long arm dangling off the bed of whatever sleazy motel or cheap apartment you lived, your hand resting on the floor, inches away from the shotgun stashed under the bed, and one ear always on the sound of your brother's light snoring in the next bed over – you doubted that was what they meant.

You were most of the way through your shower when you realized you'd not had a decent night's sleep since leaving the shotgun in the trunk of your brother's car, snug in its traveling place of dark blue-black foam.

Turning off the water, you stepped out of the shower and caught sight of yourself in the mirrors over a row of sinks on the other side of the room. The form in the mirror was enough to remind you why you only shower late at night; there would be too many awkward questions otherwise. There, on your shoulder, are three shallow grooves, remnants of the claw of a creature you barely remember attacking you when you were young. You remember the claws and the teeth and the hunger in its eyes and how loud your brother's gun was as it went off less than a foot from your head. Looking at the scar, you thought you could still hear an echo of igniting gunpowder. There is a single, straight line, three inches long, nearly bisecting your left nipple; a shard of glass and your first poltergeist. For the first time ever, you stood in front of the mirror and cataloged each and every scar, every hunt that went wrong, every stupid mistake, and couldn't help but remember that your brother has only three scars – one burn, on his right leg, caused by a leaky bottle of lighter fluid; one cut, on his lower back, from the same poltergeist that caught you in the chest with a chunk of shattered mirror; and one bullet hole in his left thigh, a ricochet from a werewolf encounter in an enclosed space. You couldn't help but realize that two of those scars were accidents, not anything your brother could have known or avoided. His one mistake pales in comparison to the dozens you know you've made, and that's just from the visible scars. You took a moment to get dressed, sweat pants and a t-shirt, your brain finally starting to surface from the alcohol. You tallied up the broken bones. You'd broken both arms a total of three times before starting at Stanford, your legs a total of four times – twice for each leg, had a total of eight broken ribs, five dislocated shoulders, one dislocated knee, and two concussions which had required hospitalization. You remember finding yourself amazed that you managed to live through it all, and realized that your brother had at least twice that number of broken bones, dislocations, and concussions – but those things don't leave a visible scar, and so are easy to forget.

You returned to your room, climbed up onto your bunk, and fell asleep, dreaming of blonde hair and laughter like bells. When you woke the next morning, you remember being surprised that you didn't have a hangover, and then being more surprised that you had slept really well for the first time since you'd arrived.

You remember it was coming up on that first Halloween when she spoke to you for the first time. You still don't know for sure what she said, only that you were both in the library and the kid in the football jersey was nowhere to be seen. You remember you must have said something funny, because there was her laughter again – her laughter like bells.

It had always been easy for you to finish your homework; to devour a book and know with absolute certainty what it said was something you were just naturally good at, much like how your brother was just naturally good at getting girls to go home with him. It was another fundamental difference between the two of you, one that caused more than its fair share of irritation. You asked, "Why?" Your brother didn't – he didn't _need_ to. Finishing your homework had always been easy. That week right before your first Halloween alone was no different. You couldn't help but wonder if that was why you felt so perpetually bored. It was the boredom, you know that now, that led you to reading the local paper. It was second nature, really, to automatically double-check all the articles for things that went bump in the night… And when you read about the two deaths connected to the remodeling of one of the campus buildings, you just _knew_ it was something that needed to be dealt with. But, you tried to ignore it. You honestly tried, going so far as to finally accept your roommate's standing invitation to join him down at the bar for a game of pool – and wasn't he surprised when you beat him? He'd expected an easy win; the poor fool had obviously not known what it meant to be raised as a Winchester. Pool was like target practice – a necessary skill, honed to a razor-sharp edge.

You remember you ran the table for three straight games before you spotted her again. She wasn't with Football Jersey and you had smiled in relief as you sunk the eight-ball. Your roommate noticed your little smile when you spotted her and begged off another game. You shrugged; you weren't all that interested in playing again, either. It wasn't as fun unless there was money at stake – unless you were playing Dean, but Dean always was a whole other ballgame. You remember you definitely weren't drunk that night, but when she approached you and laid her quarters on the table, you felt like you were. "Think I can play, too?" she had asked, a wonderful megawatt smile on her face. You remember you hadn't wanted to play again, but how could you tell her no?

You remember that first game you were so distracted by her that you made a _lot_ of amateur mistakes. She even accused you of going easy on her at one point, looking for all the world like a ticked-off angel. You remember trying to focus past that. You managed to hold your own for the second game, but you also remember that she completely and totally won all on her own during the third game. When you begged off a fourth, she finally introduced herself. "Jessica Moore." Your achingly perfect angel now had a name.

Two days later, you were sitting in the cafeteria steadily working your way through a ginormous cup of coffee, not having slept well the night before – odd dreams you couldn't quite remember on waking the cause. Jessica managed to slip into the chair directly across from you almost without your notice. The two of you managed to actually have a conversation – well, _she_ had done most of the talking, you merely stuttered and stumbled through the appropriate replies. Honestly, how did your brother do this all the time?

It was on Halloween that two things finally made themselves glaringly obvious. It began with coffee with Jessica in the morning. The first morning with Jessica had spawned a second, and by the third, Jessica was meeting you at the cafeteria doors with a mug just the way you liked it. It was slowly getting easier to talk to her without tripping over your own tongue or turning roughly the same shade of red as a barn door. You still let her do most of the talking, though. After all, what could you really tell her about yourself? That you had trouble sleeping because you didn't have a shotgun handy? That your roommate _still_ didn't know about the line of salt under the rug in front of your dorm room door? Or the similar line of salt on the top of the window frame – just out of sight of your much-shorter roommate? Right. You let her talk because, stammering aside, you really couldn't talk about yourself. It was just as the breakfast rush was drawing to a close that you discovered something about Jessica. You remember it happened just as you were making your goodbyes for your first class. She handed you your books with that megawatt smile of hers. "It wouldn't be good to forget these, now would it?" You remember chuckling a little. "Oh, Sam. What would you do without me?" That was when the realization hit. You loved her. It may have only been a few days since you'd really met her, but still… You loved her and you thought that maybe, just _maybe_ she loved you, too.

It was between your first class and your second that the sirens cut across the campus. Even as you followed the crowd of other students who – like people everywhere – were possessed with the macabre desire to know _who, what, how much blood, _you heard the news. Another death on the renovations crew for Porter Hall. Your right palm itched in your pocket, wanting your knife… _needing_ that familiar handle and length of cold steel. You knew you couldn't let this go on. The construction worker… You remember swallowing at the sight. The blood… Dripping down the concrete steps… It's an image you will never forget. You remember closing your eyes and turning from the building. You remember going to the library; the rows of books giving cold comfort in what was the single hardest choice you had ever made. It only took an hour to locate the information you needed.

You remember going to your afternoon classes, but to this day you don't remember a single thing that was discussed. Your thoughts were too focused on your self-appointed task for that night. As unarmed as you were, you couldn't risk actually going into the renovated building, so you spent most of the day fervently praying that the information you had uncovered was accurate, and that the excursion you were planning for that night would stop the haunting.

It took nearly two hours to convince Jessica that you didn't feel well, but to go ahead and go to the costume party without you. It was during that conversation that you first called her 'Jess'. After she left, it didn't take long at all to walk to the bus stop. A stop at a hardware store where the clerk gave you a 'I thought Rush-week was over' look and you had the four things you needed.

You remember that it was almost midnight before you located the right grave. You started digging, all the time wishing that your brother or your dad would appear and take their turn at it. You were halfway down when the rain started; a slow, misting drizzle. Warm and humid like a couple in a classic car on a hill overlooking a starlit lake. By the time you reached the rotted wood of the coffin, you were soaked to the skin. You remember being grateful that the rain was warm; you hated to think what a bout of pneumonia would have done to your scholarship. Then, more than ever, you didn't want to have to go back and beg Dad to take you home. Failure was not an option.

When the last of the flames died down, you filled in the hole, finishing just as the sun came up, hidden behind a sky of weeping clouds. You tossed the empty salt canister and bottle of lighter fluid in a trashcan near the entrance of the cemetery. The flashlight you'd used was tucked in your pocket. The shovel was dropped under some bushes, hopefully never to be seen again. You remember walking back to the dorm, a knot between your shoulders and blisters on your hands, and you remember thinking that this was the first time since you'd gotten to school that you'd felt almost completely _normal_, and how completely and totally_ fucked_ was your life that you needed to desecrate a grave in order to feel that way?

You don't know if Jess ever noticed your night out, or if she ever wondered where the blisters on your hands came from, but you do remember that it was harder to lie to her after that. So, you didn't lie. You just resigned yourself to not telling her everything. She may have been suspicious – you know you would have been, had you been in her shoes, but she never said anything.

You remember how, after that one night in the graveyard, Jess seemed to stick with you through just about everything, going so far as to stay with you during breaks. It wasn't a surprise when she suggested sharing an apartment that first summer. What was surprising was that you agreed. You don't know if she ever noticed the salt on the tops of the window frames or the line under the welcome mat. If she did, she never said anything.

She didn't mention the nights you would disappear and not come back until nearly sunrise, new knots and new blisters in place. You remember that she would simply laugh her little gypsy-bell laugh, shove you into the shower and then into bed and ask, "Oh, Sam. What would you do without me?"

You remember her laugh, like bells.

You remember the rain, soft and warm.

You remember how she never said anything.

You remember that you loved her.

You remember. You will always remember.

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**A/N2:** I know this is something of an odd writing style for me, but... what can I say? The second-person POV is something I _never _write, but this wouldn't be written any other way. 

**December 28, 2007:** I went through and cleaned up some of the grammar issues I noticed when I reread this today. I also changed a couple of mentions of Sam's age to make the story more canon-compliant now that I've _finally _seen the season three episodes.


End file.
